


words (spaces between us)

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: No one wanted another story about Hanzo killing Genji and yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 14:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9126853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: Duty is a thorn, caught fast in Hanzo's throat.It's half past one and he's still awake, pacing the wooden floor of the huge, empty shrine—the clawed tips of his shoes click against the wooden slats,tap tap taplike a clock, counting down the minutes until his reckoning. His sword--the mighty Stormblade--is a solid presence upon his back, heavy with the generations of clan leaders that have held it before him, with promise and responsibility; it's a burden of a blade, always has been, but never more so than now.It's the weapon with which he will enforce his ultimatum.





	

Duty is a thorn, caught fast in Hanzo's throat.

It's half past one and he's still awake, pacing the wooden floor of the huge, empty shrine—the clawed tips of his shoes click against the wooden slats, _tap tap tap_ like a clock, counting down the minutes until his reckoning. His sword--the mighty Stormblade--is a solid presence upon his back, heavy with the generations of clan leaders that have held it before him, with promise and responsibility; it's a burden of a blade, always has been, but never more so than now.

It's the weapon with which he will enforce his ultimatum.

Not by his choice, oh no—but by a council he cannot go against, by a legacy that he cannot disappoint. The Shimada-gumi have suffered, lately, with the loss of their clan head; and the whispers in Hanzo's ear come from many sources but are the same, tell him that in this time of weakness he must show strength. He must prove to their enemies that they are whole, a united front, lacking any weak links in their chain of greatness.

Moreover, Genji must prove that he will not be that weak link.

It's easy to tell when his brother comes home; his steps are loud in the silence of the night, his voice merry and slurring only a little as he sings a dance song under his breath. Hanzo straightens up, his body tense when Genji finally turns the corner—Genji halts, blinks at him, frowns.

“...Hanzo?” He squints, then stumbles back a step, a wide grin slowly crossing his face. “Hanzo! What're you doing up? It's...” Genji fumbles to pull his phone out of his pocket, and stares at the clock on it for a moment before his gaze finds Hanzo's face again. “....'s late. Real late. Thought you'd—“

“We need to talk.” Hanzo makes himself start because if he doesn't, if he lets Genji keep rambling, this will never be resolved. He can remember the desperation in his voice, when he'd begged the council for another chance— _”He's my brother, just let me talk to him, please”_ —and as he stares down Genji's half-drunk, slouched figure, he finds himself bitterly wondering why.

“....Talk.” Genji raises a brow at him, crosses his arms. His voice goes haughty. “You always...bring a sword, to talk to people?”

Hanzo's jaw tightens, aches with how hard he’s clenching his teeth. “It depends on the severity of the conversation.”

“So in this case—“

“Shut up, Genji.”

His brother's face pinches at that, the grin leaving to be replaced by a faint scowl. Hanzo tells himself he can't care, tells himself this has to be done.

Genji's life is at stake, and he knows no one else will fight for it as hard as he will.

“The council gave me a job to do,” Hanzo starts, his voice detached; he can't let himself fall prey to his emotions, to whatever feelings Genji might try to rouse in him. In this delicate matter, there's far too much on the line for him to lose focus. “And they're not happy with you. You've been neglecting your duties—”

“They haven't been happy with me since I was ten years old, and dropped paint balloons on them from the high towers,” Genji mutters, and Hanzo grinds his teeth to keep himself from yelling.

“This is serious,” he snaps, voice strained with the effort it takes to keep in control—why can't Genji see how precarious his situation is? Why doesn't he care? “You clearly don't understand, or else you would take this more seriously—”

“And why should I do that?” Genji retorts, all traces of his earlier cheer gone as he glares down Hanzo with hazy eyes. “You've got more than enough 'serious' for the both of us, golden son—”

 _“Golden son?”_ Hanzo splutters, taken utterly aback—but Genji only presses on.

“Yeah! You've always been the favorite, don't act so shocked,” he spits, his words laced with venom and vitriol; far more bitter than Hanzo thought he could ever be. “The son everybody praises, the son everybody likes— _'Would you like me to wipe your ass for you, young master? Want me to suck your cock, young master?'_ It's all the same! _'Genji, why can't you be more like Hanzo? Genji, why do things that make you happy? Genji, why'd you have to be born'_ —“

“That's enough,” Hanzo cuts in coldly, stopping Genji's tirade. “You know as well as I do that if you devoted yourself to the Shimada-gumi, you would receive just as much respect as I do—”

“I don't want to!” Genji cries, throwing his hands up like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like he's offended he even has to explain. “I don't want this, Hanzo! I don't want to live constantly looking over my shoulder, always having to calculate who I can be friends with, killing people, manipulating people as if they were pawns—”

“It is your responsibility,” Hanzo says hotly, but the words are tired—they've had this conversation many times before, though Genji had been less eager to flat-out deny their birthright. Unease coils in his gut, threatening to snap. “You were born a Shimada, and you cannot keep enjoying the boons of your surname without pulling your weight—”

Genji looks pained, something in his gaze desperate. “I didn't choose this—”

“It doesn't matter!” Hanzo snaps, voice clipped and heated; his breath coming in quick little pulls, anger racing hot through his blood. He's had to work to keep his clan alive, sacrifice his pleasures, earned everything he's been given, and it's about damn time Genji had to, as well. “If you're so interested in equality—”

“I'm interested in freedom!” Genji shouts back, just as livid, taking a step closer to match his brother's aggression. “I'm a grown adult, and I'm not even allowed to dictate my future! The council can kiss my ass—”

_“They were going to have you killed!”_

Hanzo all but screams it, his composure gone; and Genji stares, his eyes wide, as the words ring out in the vacant shrine. Hanzo holds his gaze for as long as he can, then drops it, glaring down at the floor.

“....they were going to send an assassin to kill you in your sleep,” he says, the confession ashen on his tongue, bitter and heavy. “Because this...this cannot go on, Genji. I cannot lead an empire with an iron fist while you disobey every rule I lay down...something has to change.”

He looks up, catches Genji's gaze, and wants to recoil from the betrayal written there. Bitter understanding dawns in his brother's eyes, and the intensity of it makes Hanzo's breath still in his lungs.

“They wanted to send an assassin.” Genji repeats, voice hollow. His hands twitch, then curl into fists at his sides. “They'd rather have me dead than have me happy—and you wonder why I want to escape this, Hanzo. You fucking idiot.”

Hanzo bristles. “It is our birthright as Shimada. We cannot just—”

“Maybe you can't,” Genji cuts in heatedly, “but I can. I'm going to, in fact. I'm not staying somewhere I'm not wanted...somewhere with people who would rather have me dead than accept who I am.”

He moves to turn, and the idea of it—of Genji leaving, of Hanzo stuck here alone, of having his brother a constant variable outside of his control—is at once so terrifying that Hanzo's hand moves of its own accord, closing tight around the hilt of his sword. His voice shakes when he speaks.

“You're not leaving.”

Genji slowly turns to face him again, and his brows raise as he takes in the sight of Hanzo, his stance promising a battle, his sword almost drawn. His own hand aches to feel Dragonblade, and he misses the weapon’s solid presence on his hip.

“...you told them not to send an assassin,” he starts, slowly. There's a madness in Hanzo’s eyes that he's not seen before; something desperate and scared that he thought died when they were boys. “So you could kill me yourself, anija?”

“I told them I would make you see reason.” Hanzo licks his lips, feels a bead of sweat crawl down his temple. The air is suddenly stifling, so thick he could cut it with his blade. “And they told me that if I could not, if you refused to come to your senses, then you were not to see the light of another dawn.” He swallows down the lump in his throat, and adds quickly, almost pleadingly, “Genji...don't do this. Not this time. Just say you'll work, say you'll apologize for being deviant, and—and end this!”

Genji stares at him, blinks slowly. “...and if I don't?”

“Don't make me,” Hanzo says quickly, voice going strained; his grip tightens on his sword's hilt. “Don't make me do this. I don't want to—just—be reasonable! This is your family!”

“My family who wants me _dead!_ ” Genji snaps, but there's an uncertainty in his gaze that gives Hanzo pause, and when he reasons out its source his blood goes cold.

Genji doesn't know if Hanzo will follow through with his threat.

Hanzo feverishly tells himself he doesn't have the same doubts, that he's strong enough for this, strong enough to save his brother—and to prove it, he pulls his sword free, the metal gleaming as it's relieved of its sheath.

“I gave you your choice.” It takes everything he has to keep his voice steady, to keep his hands from shaking; pulling his sword up, it feels impossibly heavy in his hands, foreign. He swallows down the thorns in his throat. “There is no other option. Now give me your answer.”

Genji stares at him, mouth agape, unable to understand what’s gotten into his brother; but a look at the grim determination on Hanzo’s face, the hand closed tight and white-knuckled around Stormblade’s hilt, tells him all he needs to know.

The family has gotten into Hanzo. 

All of his life, he was their golden boy--the example, the display of perfection. Genji has always been the spare as the second son, expendable until he was needed, left to his own devices because he was never worthy of their attention, their time--

And now here he is, outliving his usefulness.

Genji narrows his eyes, his mouth setting in a firm, bitter sneer.

“You'd cut me down without giving me a weapon to defend myself with, brother?” he asks, voice cold; Hanzo doesn't miss the way Genji flinches when his hand goes to pull the other sword from his waist, the way his eyes widen when it's tossed out between them. Dragonblade slides along the floor before coming to rest before Genji's feet.

“Pick up your sword, then, fool.” Hanzo's grip tightens around Stormblade's hilt, his knuckles going white—his heart begs for Genji to disobey. “If you insist on being this way...then I will honor you with a clean death.”

“Honor?” Genji snaps, bending to grab Dragonblade and quickly pulling the sword from its green sheath; he gives it a few quick swings through the air, and glares at Hanzo from behind the safety of the blade. “Don't speak to me of honor. Try to kill me, if that is what you think you must do—but don't you dare do it in the name of honor.”

He shifts his stance, legs spreading wider to better brace his weight, and beckons Hanzo with two fingers.

“Come, then, brother.”

Hanzo stares at him, something in his chest withering. His hand shakes around Stormblade, until he narrows his eyes and strengthens his grip, tells himself this is but one challenge he must overcome if he is to lead his clan to prosperity.

If he cannot take down one man, then how will he ever be able to be the leader his clan needs him to be—expects him to be?

Hanzo charges forward.

Their swords meet, clash echoing in the empty chamber; it's a sickening sound, the brother blades striking one another, like the weapons themselves know something is wrong. Hanzo bears down with his greater weight, watches Genji's arms quiver as they try to resist being overpowered.

“Lay down your sword, little fool,” he hisses, and Genji growls at him, eyes narrowed and angry. He jerks away suddenly, darts down, swings himself around; Hanzo snarls at the sharp pain that comes from Dragonblade nicking his calf as Genji passes, but it's a glancing blow, hardly meant to disarm or cripple. He whips around and pins Genji under his glare.

“Fine.” Hanzo spits the word with all the venom he can muster—some part of him is still hoping he can bully Genji into giving up, but that hope is quickly dying the longer his brother stares him down with valiant defiance in his eyes.

 _“Is an empire worth the life of one man?”_ the elders had asked him, talking over their drinks about assassinations and slaughter, safe from harm in the council chambers. At the time, Hanzo had no answer.

Now, he simply sets his jaw.

“Have it your way.”

He charges again—and this time there is no clash, no ringing of steel, because as good a swordsman as Genji is he is not the dutiful son who spent years devoting himself to the craft. Once upon a time the brothers might have been close to equals, but Genji's skill has been dulled by his idleness, his reflexes growing attuned to a controller and muscles softening with their lack of hard use, his mind muddled with good food and better booze.

While Hanzo was mastering every weapon placed in his hands, Genji was honing his prowess at leading others to his bed. Hanzo stores the knowledge bitterly, tells himself it is but one more reason why this must be done.

They fight. While Genji has speed on his side, his body less weighed down by bulky muscle and much more nimble, Hanzo has his years of experience and his might—one glancing backswing strong enough to halt Genji's stealthy attacks and send him staggering.

In the end, there's only one way it can end: and it all comes back down to Genji.

He's dropped to one knee, his head hung low between his heaving shoulders, using his sword as a support beside him. His clothes are dotted with blood from his wounds—mostly shallow slashes along his arms and legs, with a few small nicks to his flank—all cuts placed intentionally, with the intent of stopping this fight without killing.

Because as much as he calls his brother a fool, Hanzo can't help but be one as well.

“...Genji.” He comes forward slowly, sword held low and lax at his side; surely Genji can see that this fight is over. Hanzo prays they can stop here, and let this be the end of the quarrel.

He stops when he stands over his brother, his voice soft as he urges, “Lay down your sword, little sparrow. You stand to gain nothing if you continue. Pledge your obedience, and let this be over.”

Genji doesn't answer. His shoulders heave as he pants, clearly exhausted; Hanzo allows himself a quiet moment of internal triumph as Genji raises his head.

_“...obedience?”_

The moment shatters.

“You want...my obedience?” Genji forces himself up with a hiss of pain, and Hanzo takes a step back—eyes wide, startled. He'd thought the fight over; how much more can his brother take?

“Genji, stop—”

“You want me to pledge fealty, like some kicked dog? Like some whipped little bitch?” Genji's words are hot with anger, his lips twisted in a snarl; his eyes settle on Hanzo's, narrowed and dark as he swings Dragonblade up again. “You only want me around to control me, to make me do your bidding—and I'm tired of living someone else's dream, Hanzo.”

He bares his teeth, righteous fury fueling his words as he spits, “If you want me to stop, you'll have to kill me, _brother_.”

Genji surges at him, and Hanzo realizes that whatever chance he had of salvaging his brother has been lost.

This time he stays on the defensive, purely because Genji makes him. It's like a fire has been lit inside his brother's core, lending his battered body speed and strength that should be long gone; he's fighting with conviction, Hanzo realizes, with the vindicated anger of someone who knows he is in the right.

Hanzo mourns that he doesn't—can't—find that spark within himself.

Genji dashes forward, catches him off guard—cuts a stripe up Hanzo's back, makes him howl. He whips around and slashes out in retribution, blinded by the pain, and doesn't realize where his sword has gone until Genji is staggering backward, free arm wrapped around the bleeding wound under his ribcage. Crimson seeps down the fabric of his shirt, staining it; is spattered in an arc on the sliced wall hanging that flutters behind him.

“Genji,” Hanzo chokes, his sword falling; and Genji looks up and rushes forward, desperation in his eyes, and it's all Hanzo can do to get Stormblade up in time to block his brother's strike.

The blades clash together with a loud, ugly noise, and Hanzo winces as a chip of steel splinters away, slicing down his cheek.

 _“Stop,”_ Hanzo moans, demands—begs, and still Genji presses forward, dark red streaked across his face and movements sluggish, pained. His clothes are heavy with blood, crimson blooming like flowers across the side of his shirt; he swings again, an anguished noise leaving him, and Hanzo hates how easy it is to swipe down, cut his brother's leg out from under him and send him sprawling. “Genji—stop!”

Genji gurgles, spits up blood; swings a glassy-eyed glare in Hanzo's general direction, staggers upright again. His sword hangs limply from his hand, like it's too heavy to properly bear anymore.

“Stop,” Hanzo says again, something in his voice desperate, pleading; but Genji is lost to him, deaf to his words as he darts forward with a speed Hanzo thought used up two injuries ago. Startled by the burst of agility, Hanzo reacts on instinct, bringing his sword up in the blink of an eye.

Warmth dribbles over his hands. Hanzo's breath stills in his lungs as he stares, horrified, at his brother—impaled on his sword, the blade run clean through his stomach. Dragonblade's tip is at Hanzo's neck, snug against the underside of his jaw and digging in with just enough pressure to split his skin.

“Genji,” Hanzo breathes, his voice shaking; and Genji snarls at him, teeth grit as he forces himself backward on shaking legs. Hanzo winces at the noise, the slick squelch of his sword moving through his brother's guts, cutting him open further.

He can smell Genji's blood, saturating the air; it's enough to make his stomach churn. Genji drops to his knees in front of him and guilt hits Hanzo all at once, like waves crashing on a shore—but before it can take hold, sink its poisonous claws into his heart and drag him under, he forces it away with a fabricated anger of his own. This is Genji's fault, he tells himself, tears pricking at his eyes: Genji forced this to come about, Genji made him hurt this way, Genji was the one who chose this path—

Baleful amber eyes look up at him from behind sweaty, dyed bangs. Genji coughs, and blood spatters his lips; bright crimson against the fading pink of his skin. The sight makes Hanzo ache, and he takes a step closer to Genji's kneeling figure, smothering the hurt, the grief, under rage.

“This is your fault,” he hisses—praying that if he brings the words into existence they will somehow become true, that if he makes Genji believe what he says than he can believe it, too. Pale blue light bubbles and breaks over his left arm, the dragons writhing under his skin, coming alive with his emotion. “You made me do this! You couldn't just be reasonable—you chose this!”

Using his sword as a crutch, Genji tries to stand again, gurgling low in his throat; and this time Hanzo's anger is immediate, unbridled rage at his fool of a brother who never knew when to quit, who could never just accept defeat, accept another's will. Overcome by the sudden fury, Hanzo draws his sword back.

“Fine!” he yells, over the blood pounding in his ears, the frantic staccato of his heartbeat. “If you won't see reason—if you refuse to fight by my side—then you will die at it instead!”

He swings his sword forward, his voice a scream and composure gone.

_“Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau!”_

The dragons surge forward with a roar and a blinding wash of frosty light, spiraling toward his downed brother like rockets. Hanzo stares after them, panting with exertion, his blade still extended.

It takes Genji's screams to break his trance.

He comes back to himself in a rush, sudden and all at once; lets go of Stormblade like the hilt has burned him, hears the blade clatter to the floor like it's tinny and miles away. Staggers back, gulps in shaky pulls of air, feels cold sweat prickling along his skin. Looks—

There's a wreckage of white and red, where his brother used to be.

“...Gen...Genji...” Hanzo's tongue feels like lead in his mouth. His hands shake. He chances a step forward, closer to the carnage Shimada, and his voice cracks as he tries again. “....G-Genji?”

The warrior's words suddenly echo in his head: You'll have to kill me, brother.

“...oh, gods.” Hanzo hits his knees with all the weight of his world crashing down around him, and doubles over, his forehead pressed to the cool floor. His breath comes in rapid, shaky little gulps, voice small and pleading as he whispers, “Gods, no...no, no, nono _no_...!”

But Genji does not answer.

His heart breaking in two with a pain worse than any sword wound, withering and dying in his chest, Hanzo buries his face in his hands and screams.


End file.
